Needs
by fennecfawkes
Summary: Shawn/Cory. Oneshot. The truth is they've always needed each other. They just now figured out how. Partially inspired by oncethrown's S/C stories. Don't own 'em, never will.


It all started with a school dance.

They'd been touching each other, publicly displaying more affection than they would for any girl since what felt like the beginning of time—age 6 or so. And after puberty, this took on a deeper meaning for both of them, but this was never verbalized, never discussed, never even thought of. At least, not too much. For Cory, it was about Topanga. And for Shawn, well, it was about whichever girl he was dating that fortnight. Eventually, of course, it was about Angela, but even that faded in time, like Topanga's feelings for Cory. That got broken off shortly after their engagement, though they remained good friends, even as Topanga became, as Cory's mother put it, "looser than a used rubber band." Cory just stayed single, and he seemed happy enough about it. So did Shawn, whose brooding character attracted so many, but held onto so few, and he simply did not care.

But first: the dance.

It was junior prom, and both boys had rented tuxes and a limousine and everything their dates desired. After the dance, where they'd jokingly joined hands and sashayed slowly to "I Don't Want to Miss a Thing" and all manner of high school pop song dreck, they'd said goodnight to their respective girlfriends (Topanga, of course, and a soon to be anonymous blonde who was probably named Jennifer) and retired to the park a block away from the Matthews' house.

They sat next to each other on swings, feeling like a wonderful cliché, these two best friends who'd aged together into what could almost be called men. The swings were too small, but they stayed there anyway and spoke of memories—pushing each other, hiding in the slide to talk about who Shawn had kissed at recess and how many words Cory had triumphed over in the spelling bee, holding each other's hand on the merry go round because it really was scary for both of them.

And soon they were on the grass, and Shawn was giving Cory a physical reminder of all the times he'd won a fight due to a tickling-based attack, and then Shawn was on top of Cory and he'd kissed him and Cory had opened his mouth and let him in and they were touching, _really _touching, Shawn admiring the smooth expanse of Cory's chest under his shirt and Cory running his fingers through the hair he'd always envied. And they kissed, and they made out, and they rounded the next base, and Cory took Shawn in his mouth and Shawn took Cory in his hands and there was so much more to do but none of the privacy or the KY to do it.

It was never said that they should keep it a secret, but there was an unspoken agreement that they would.

And then, one by one, the pieces fell into place, as they graduated and Topanga broke things off and went to NYU and Angela was suddenly gone, in Europe or some locale for which they had no contact information, and Eric joined Rachel and Jack in Nigeria or Ethiopia or wherever the hell they'd ended up, and soon it was just Shawn and Cory, Cory and Shawn, no longer boys, almost certainly past the prime of young men, more mature than they'd ever thought possible.

It didn't start right away. It was just the occasional hand holding at the movies or arms casually draped around each other's shoulders as they watched late night reruns of _Dick Van Dyke _and sometimes, if Cory won the argument and held dominion over the remote, _Star Trek_, but never _Voyager_, just the original series and maybe season six of _The Next Generation_. Soon, though, there were kisses goodnight. On the cheek, on the forehead, a daring peck on the neck here and there—and one night, on the lips as they drifted off to their separate bedrooms in the apartment Shawn still felt lucky they could afford with their brand new, adult-feeling jobs, his at a literary agency and Cory's as a paralegal at a small time law firm. Shawn initiated it. Shawn felt as though he always did, though Cory seemed not to mind. It didn't bother him. He was the dominant one. He always had been. And Cory was more than willing to submit.

One night, they were watching a DVD in Cory's room, because that's where the DVD player was, rather inexplicably, but Shawn had never cared too much about that. It was _The Spy Who Loved Me_, and at some point, they'd ended up entangled in the sheet's on Cory's bed, soft, soft sheets that felt to Shawn like a nice worn t-shirt, the kind with holes at the underarms that you just couldn't bear to throw away. And Shawn was leaning against the crook of Cory's arm, Cory's stuffed rabbit Benji at his side, and he couldn't remember who'd started touching who that night but he started to put the pieces together when Cory ran his fingers through Shawn's hair and tucked it behind his ear and inched over just enough to put his lips on the lobe, then his teeth, tugging and licking and kissing and sucking...

And Shawn found himself flat on his back as Cory climbed on top of him, pausing to remove Shawn's shirt as Shawn, in a daze, compliantly raised his arms and returned the favor. Cory's chest was so smooth, his muscles more taut than Shawn ever would've imagined, and it was so strange to put his hands on such a flat surface and feel so much heat radiating there, heat that Shawn idly wondered how long it had been there. And then he was gripping the sides of Cory's face as they kissed, stubble on stubble, chapped lips on chapped lips, tongues flicking and pulses raised, racing wild. Cory tugged at the sides of Shawn's hair because, in the immortal words of Dr. McCoy in _Star Trek V_, Shawn didn't want the pain. He needed the pain. And he growled in response, easily the most arousing thing Corey had ever seen or heard, and Cory was flipped and panting and taking in everything Shawn was giving him, drinking it in, knowing now that life would be useless without this.

Because Shawn had lube, and of course he did, they were able to finish what they'd started on that playground so long ago. They were men now, in their 20s, old enough to know that this was better rather than old enough to know better. The truth was they'd always needed each other. They just hadn't quite arrived at where that need stretched to. And now they knew, and it was all they'd ever need to know again.


End file.
